Le tube de l'automne !

Septembre est arrivé
mais ne te laisse pas déprimer.
Même s’il fait froid
autour de toi
ne le laisse pas
entrer en toi.

On a encore
de l’été dans le cœur
On a encore
les yeux pleins de bonheur
On a encore
un esprit voyageur
Jusqu’à l’aurore
on va danser pour oublier.

L’automne est arrivé
on est à nouveau enfermés.
À l’école ou au travail
tu te dis «plus rien qui vaille».
Mais ce soir on va revivre
et ensemble on va survivre.

On a encore
de l’été dans le cœur
On a encore
les yeux pleins de bonheur
On a encore
un esprit voyageur
Jusqu’à l’aurore
on va danser pour oublier.

Tout l’monde est arrivé
oui ce soir on est tous là
ce soir on va fêter
l’amour, l’amitié, la joie.
Peu importe la couleur du ciel
car cette soirée est éternelle.

On a encore
de l’été dans le cœur
On a encore
les yeux pleins de bonheur
On a encore
un esprit voyageur
Jusqu’à l’aurore
on va danser pour oublier.

A letter to my neighbours

Dear Neighbours,

We live at number 12, a ground floor flat that makes you and us share a common wall. On our side, it is a neat magnolia surface on which a large photo of my sister warmly wrapped up in her scarf and hood yet standing bare feet in the cold April north sea guards our sleep. Although you are probably not aware of it, on our side that wall is a bedroom wall. On your side we have found out, it is a kitchen wall. My guess would be that it is a storage area, and I suspect it hosts a dishwasher too.

Have you ever tried to picture the space as it really is ? Forget about the visual barrier we create and represent yourself that actual square meter across both our flats. We are tucked in and curled up comfortably in bed, nested in our brand new king size duvet thanks to which my bum doesn’t get exposed to the chill anymore, soundly sleeping already when suddenly at half past eleven or preferably midnight, you come and happily scrape the remains of a dirty dish at our faces. In that square meter, when I stretch my arm from under the duvet I can reach your trousers and give them a nudge to attract your attention because I’m too sleepy to speak and beg you to please stop with the racket.

I am puzzled at how quiet you can be all evening, until that cleaning surge possesses you in that consistent half hour gap. An hour later comes the clinging of the fork dance, rhythmed by the bouncing of the doors and the banging of the drawers. Together they terrify me and I wake up in panic, my heart pounding as if someone was ripping it off my ribcage. Yes, that creepy shaman from Indiana Jones. That’s exactly how your nightly kitchen tidying cessions make me feel.

I don’t want to sound pushy; you have the freedom to live as you wish in your personal space after all and surely we do have our own annoying habits too, but please dear neighbours, do you think you could find some other moment to take care of the dishes?

Kind regards,

Words and their special meanings.

Some words mean more to me than to a dictionary. Any dictionary. Dictionaries don’t care about words, they just do their job because they have no choice. They can only mumble dusty definitions, and have forgotten how joyful words can be.

Stale.

I smell warm fragrances, it is the smell of nesting and nibbling. I hear the flood of a corn tide. I’m wearing a black cap and am a student in London again, working part time in a cinema. I remember walking on the wooden boards of West India Quay and the hollow bounce of my steps on them, the warmth of a late summer, ironing red shirts forever, the boosy smell of the DLR on the way back from evening shifts. I remember the half tons deliveries of sweets, the quiet time to myself, shelving up alone for hours in the stock rooms, writing expiry dates and taking care of rotations. I remember walking up and down the escalators all day long and realizing it made me fitter by the week. Great times. I remember the black trousers which only exist in my memory now that I’ve thrown them away. I remember a customer complaining that her popcorn was stale. I believed it was spelt ‘still’ for a very long time.

Tous aux abris.

Je ne me lancerai pas dans une dissertation sur le nucléaire parce que je n’ai pas étudié la question mais il y a quand même un truc qui me chiffonne. Certains nous assurent de l’infaillibilité des centrales, qui justifie de continuer à exploiter cette source d’énergie.

Pourtant il me semble que l’infaillibilité ne peut être que rétrospective: elle peut être constatée mais pas garantie dans la mesure où l’avenir est incertain. On peut conjoncturer, prévoir, calculer, simuler mais par définition on ne peut jamais savoir.

Il est étrange de pouvoir créer des mots que l’on comprend, qui ont un sens sur lequel on s’accorde mais qui dans la réalité peuvent être si dénués de substance, des coquilles vides. Bien peu de choses doivent être absolument infaillibles. Il doit bien y avoir quelques propriétés physiques ou chimique établies qui font que certaines choses ne peuvent se passer que d’une et une seule manière, mais je les imagine plutôt rares. Le futur est par définition indéterminé et même dans la certitude la plus intime il impose toujours une note de réserve, un doute infime.

L’infaillibilité devrait rester une simple formule, un principe. Du domaine du discours, elle ne devrait être utilisée que de manière théorique, seulement les mots sont libres de droits. Parce que nous pouvons tous comprendre ce terme et que chacun peut l’utiliser à guise, il est employé dans des contextes où il n‘a pas sa place.

Lorsqu’ils sont grammaticalement organisés et habillement agencés, les mots parfois nous bercent sans que l’on réalise l'incohérence ou la vacuité du propos.

What if you died tomorrow.

Life is delicate. We take it for granted yet it can tip so easily. One unfortunate encounter. A soaked driver, a weary cliff, an adventurous mouthful.

What would be your legacy?

What did you achieve, what is it that deep inside makes you proud? How many big or small victories? For each of those, much remorse, how much regrets? How much unsaid, undone, unforgiven? Will your merits atone for your sins or will your soul overwhelm the feather?

How much unfinished business? Would there have been a difference in completing what you undertook? What is it that was truly worth your time and energy? Did you spend any on it?

How will a friend, a vague acquaintance, a sibling, your neighbours or colleagues describe you? What’s your afterglow, which impression of you will remain in their mind? How many different person will you have been, how many did each of them know?

When your next of kin step in your house or flat, what will they find? The book you were reading, the game you were playing, the clothes you wore the day before. Perhaps your perfume will still linger in the air. They will find your muddy old shoes, how much washing up was left in the sink. Will they finish it up for you? How much will the objects you own tell about you? Will they be kept religiously for memory, used for what they are and gradually lose your name, will they be thrown away to ward off the pain?

Say you die tomorrow. What will be left of you?

À plus.

Bye bye baguette, on se retrouve dans six mois.

Salut les tsokas, c’est promis je prendrai des cours la prochaine fois.

Salut les copains, ceux que j’ai vu et ceux que j’aurais aimé voir.

Adieu les volets, on se réveillera à nouveau au lever du soleil.

Les kilos c’est bon ? Vous êtes toujours prêts je me demande pourquoi je pose la question.

Ciel gris et gouttes de pluie, à plus, on se retrouve de l’autre côté.

Ciao les vacances, la paix d’esprit et les heures de lecture, l’insouciance et les grasses matinées.

Salut les gens, frangine et cousines, les parents et tous les autres. Je vous secoue mon mouchoir par la fenêtre en souriant avant de m'en servir discrètement.

C’est dur de partir mais du monde m’attend là bas.

Un tout nouvel ordi patiente depuis trois semaines au pied de ma forêt de R2, il va me falloir soudoyer un collègue pour le ramener en voiture.

Mon super sac à main oublié m’attend au coin d’un bar, j’espère qu’il n’aura pas essuyé les fonds de vodka.

J’ai hâte de retrouver mes acariens anglais, je m’entends mal avec leurs homologues français.

Il y a des vaches à dessiner, des pages à taper, des vidéos à éditer.

Et surtout, il y a un avenir très ouvert qui cherche à se dessiner.

Vite. Dans l’eurostar.

Excuse my French (asshole etc.).

Almost every day, I listen to French radio podcats at work. Amongst others, I’ve listened to interviews of Umberto Pasti, an italian man who was talking nature and gardens, or Marjane Satrapi, an iranian woman mostly famous for her comic book film adaptation. (If you haven’t yet, you should watch Persepolis now.) Both were speaking an excellent French, hard to tell from that of a native speaker save for their accents.

Both sounded bright and educated and yet… both also sounded pretty rude at times, happily using words such as conard, salope, nichon… (asshole, bitch, tit). It did surprise me at first but the more I think about it, the more sense it makes. After all, I used to be pretty damn rude in English too.

Even though I used to know the exact meaning of all the swear words I was using, they were some sort of abstractions. I used to know their signification but not necessarily feel it, they were disconnected. They wouldn’t disturb me enough to prevent myself from using them. Some would say: ‘You’ve seen the shapes, but you haven’t understood them.’ The signifier was striding ahead of its signified.

That reminds me of this day at college when I referred to T.S. Eliot as ‘this guy’. I made my tutor and fellow british students giggle. Oh well, of course I had read him and he’s that brilliant, sensitive, mind blowing poet who writes so beautifully he makes me emotional. (If you haven’t yet, you should read Four Quartets now.) But hey, I still described him as ‘this guy’ because… I don’t know. Because it was the usual expression I would have used to describe ‘a male person’ at that time so my brain picked it for my mouth to enunciate. Because the form didn’t really matter, I was just trying to get to a point. Because a foreign language demands so much time to properly get into you, slip into your mind, pounding in your headaches, running through your fingerprints, breathing every time you inhale and gasping when you hold your breath, growing up with you as you nurture it lovingly. Like a plant, like a child, like something you take care of.

Did I tell you? In September, my British child will turn eight years-old. I’ve taught him not to use naughty words.